


Goodnight. (Sleep tight.)

by tribunal



Category: Scrutinized (Video Game), Welcome to the Game (Video Game)
Genre: Doctor Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Femdom, Foot Fetish, Improper Use of Medical Equipment, Multiple Orgasms, Named Reader Character, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive personality, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Reader-Insert, Stalking, Well...the implication of one anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:01:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26134645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: In this span of time, evening to night, he watches. Observes. Your chin in your hand when you’re deep in thought, eyes scrunched up from the efforts of comparing one scrap of notes to another. Bides his time, drums fingers against the windowsill, chuckles beneath his breath when your gaze inches closer and closer still to his.You’re cute, in a disarming way. Downright charming, if you’d want to be. That’s swell. He can be charming too.
Relationships: Tanner (Scrutinized)/Reader, Tanner (Scrutinized)/You, Tanner/Luna Youngman
Comments: 17
Kudos: 111





	Goodnight. (Sleep tight.)

**Author's Note:**

> I know Luna's appearance was shown, but I don't fucks with it, so I'm using her as a named stand-in for the reader. So please feel free to immerse yourself.

“Lotta sick fucks in this neighborhood.” It’s the first words he hears you mutter all night, all in the time you’ve sat cross-legged in your computer chair, back slumped down low and blazer rumpled. There’s a part of him that finds it utterly _fascinating_ that you’ve not bothered to dress down for your time alone (and, yes, he’ll freely admit it: disappointed), only slung off sensible flats and hunkered your weight into the chair, cracking every bone in your fingers before typing with a ferocity that makes the ever-present smile quirk up on your observer’s lips.

This isn’t a new thing, this _curiosity._ He plans every detail of his life, Tanner does, from each interaction with wide-eyed coworkers to the artful swooping of hair above his brow. He plans, plans, plans, but he is not too far above himself to not chase after whimsies (when they suit him, _only_ when they suit him). They itch his hands, dot his palms with sweat, and he won’t deny himself, not when base instincts call so loudly. He isn’t one to be a _slave_ to those whims, but neither is he weak-willed enough to _ignore_ that siren’s call.

So when thoughts of the plucky DA’s analyst drifted, they sunk claws in deep, deeper than any prior. Thoughts of lovely Luna--you--flourished, bright, ominous, and unsettling in a way that entices him, makes that floundering peal of an organ spring to life. Ah. That old desire. It is charmingly familiar, sometimes maddeningly so.

But this, oh, how it clings to him, makes him want to cling to you. Needy little morsel.

An oddity. One to pursue, undoubtedly.

He is fastidious, of this there is no doubt. He is many other things, many slimy things (things that you, the woman, may like, but you, the analyst, will certainly _not_ ), but he’d like to think his tenacity is one of his...cleaner qualities.

Determined to glean details, though your departments are separate and interactions too few and far between to make him _stick_ in your memory. For safety’s sake, it’s better this way, but there is that thunderous _need_ in him that refuses reason, rises its head at inopportune moments and--of course--Tanner has no choice but to give chase. Naturally. Why would he deny his nature?

So he plans. Trips to the break room, where he knows he’ll see you sluggishly prodding at the French press, idle commentary too chirpy to make him naught else but an annoyance, but even annoyances _stick._

(He doubt he will, though, you’re half-human without at least three cups of sweet, sweet caffeine, something undead haunting the halls until that last cup is drained. It’s beautiful, makes him feel more a doctor of legend than something mundane when he sees that light seeping--blooming--in your eyes, the sharpness replacing dull wit.) 

He wants to _stick,_ wants to cling firmly to your flesh, until there is nothing separate between the two of you, no indicator of where he begins and you end. Maybe there is no end, just that sinuous oroboros of the both of you, feeding his mania as he gives to you, as symbiotic as it is parasitic.

A shuddery exhalation jolts him, makes him flick his tongue out to tap against teeth. He adjusts the heat tucked firmly away behind buckled slacks, that cerise-stained cap burning behind his palm. That won’t do, not while you’re obliviously rolling a pen on the plushness of lower lip, humming noncommittally underneath your breath as you look over another mindless report, likely yet another pompous neighbor crying foul in the face of false shadows.

There are seedier creatures hiding just underneath, those hags just need to look the other direction.

Tanner cannot--will not--allow his eyes to rove over that lip, to think of his thumb replacing that pen, pulling darkened lips apart, pressing the pad of his fingers against the wetness of your tongue, trapping it against your teeth.

His fingers twitch at the windowsill, breath stains the glass with needy, needy condensation. Proof of desire, as though the heat humming behind blended wool knit isn’t heady enough.

He’s getting ahead of himself, letting the overblown warmth of the hunt scratch needle marks in his brain. Desire clashes with sense and suddenly it’s all he wants, to unlatch the window, slink his way in your home, bury himself in your heat until he’s pressing against your heart, plunger poised to keep you pliant, reaching your neediest depths until you’re there, here, there, with him. Always him. Only?

No. Possession was never his modus operandi, he knows that down to the marrow of him. But it’s what he wants in this dark moment, to be knuckle arm elbow-deep until he’s all _you_ know, until you’re all his world. No, no, no. Not quite. He can’t find words for it, moves on instinct when the hunt calls for it. But instincts are backed up by planning, such detail in his work. Shame it will largely go unnoticed, only clues leading trails he wants pointed in such a direction.

It’s the greatest artists that often go unsung. _C’est la vie._

He wants, wants, _craves_ , but years of study, of reining himself tightly in, keeps him steady, just on the edge of feral. His smile twitches at the edges, looks unnatural spreading across stark features, but there’s no one to see. No one to mind, overmuch.

Would you shy away from his baser urges? Signs point to no, not when you lean forward imperceptibly at the pictures of amateur gore dug up from cracked phones, not likely you’d say no when your breath catches at your more...lurid finds.

Would you lean in, then, when he allows you to waken from a drug-addled sleep, dreamless and soft? Would you buck up into his grasp, allow him to feast, feast, feast? He’s never had complaints, not when he’s allowed his fill, and the longer he watches, the more he realizes…

He is terribly hungry.

Ah, but he realizes he’s getting ahead of himself. _Down boy, he tells the twitching head of his cock_. The hunt is exciting, but the details more so. Parsing them, unwinding their coils, such enthralling ideas cannot be wasted on impulse alone (even though Tanner is--he’ll admit--made near-entirely of impulse, the definition of “jumping the gun”). He doesn’t want to be “known”, doesn’t want something as base as understanding--how terribly boring, how base--something as silly as “emotion” doesn’t hound him, lick at his heels.

No, that’s not what he wants from you at all. Not really.

He wants something _deeper_ , doesn’t want to be known, but wants to _know_ you, from meat to marrow, every little thing that makes you tick. He wants to know you not only in a way biblical (the flesh, of course, _always the flesh_ ), but in a manner...transcendental? There is a word for it, one he’ll pore over mindlessly in his day-to-day, but not now, not where there are so many more _important_ things for him to be considering.

Tanner’s next exhale is harsh, flecks of spittle hitting the window. You’ve popped a handful of cashews in your mouth, chewing thoughtlessly before leaning down with your free hand and massaging the ball of one stockinged foot. Deft fingers, laden with the beginnings of writer’s callouses, ease tight muscles. The stressors of the day, wound up and balled into reddening marks visible even through the black fabric.

(He thought you would’ve worn sheer ones, perhaps even hoped you’d go without one day. But, alas, it’s all stockings and slacks with you, god forbid he sees you on an off day.)

But this is enough to set that wriggling organ to need, a need that makes his own hands stop, pause, one bending down low to press against the incessant head of his cock, the thin beading of lubricant only just beginning to stain. He knows this will seal itself in his memory, the arch of one foot as the other you’re massaging folds--almost sweetly--back into your lap. Curling of toes as the former taps on the ground below you, ah, yes, this will settle nicely in his brain, committed as every other detail of you is set.

A sharp gasp comes from you, some stubborn tense muscle finally released, and it sets his mind awhirl. That sound, _that sound!_ He has plans upon plans, back-ups in case of do-gooder neighbors attempting to get between him and what he knows to be his (why bother when it _feels_ right? Why be made reluctant?), but there is nothing stopping him from pulling up that window, slinking inside and holding a needle against your neck.

Last night it was liquid lorazepam tucked securely in his syringe--to be injected intravenously--just enough to bring you down, down, and into his waiting arms. A cocktail to work wonders on memory, you would feel only the sting of the needle--pinprick, so very slight--then wake up in the morning, ready to tackle the day with no memories of the evening prior. As though a fog had nestled firmly over the night before, blissful and nameless.

He could use this for such a number of things, ranging from the vivid to the vile, but, no, no. Not this time, not this one.

Though he knows of the people that lurk within this seemingly quiet town, he need not mirror them. Much, _much_ more fun to fuck living flesh than a simple body, much more fun to wear the scars of your passion on his skin, see the marks of his own frenzied touch bloom flower-mark bruises on your skin.

He thought about it, all the same. Considered pressing that needle to a throbbing, caffeine-laden vein, cradling your head with a tenderness he isn’t entirely certain he feels in truth (but his obsessions always require the utmost care, surely). But, no, no, that wouldn’t have been right, wouldn’t have felt right. 

It is so painstakingly important things be _right,_ even if things are _sudden._ Moving by instinct’s all well and good, but moving without plans? Foolhardy. More rewarding to watch the city’s _finest_ flounder and fumble, tripping over crime scenes as though they were shoelaces.

More rewarding to move without fear.

So, tonight, something different, then. No need for the lorazepam, not when he won’t be spiriting you away just yet (time, _time, this great and heavy weight_ ). This time, something a bit more...personalized, a sludgelike mixture so akin to honey.

Honey on the senses. Honey on the mind. Honey coating his tongue, tangy, tangy sweets. He’d sup until that greedy beast in him was sated, and sup more because--really--can you trust someone like him to stop when he’s had “enough”?

He’ll gorge himself as he likes, thank you very much!

And at the very least, he’ll get you off his mind, out his lungs (on his tongue, on his _tongue_ ), out every system that makes up the entirety of him.

One should hope.

_Lotta sick fucks in this neighborhood,_ you had said, tongue rolling as it clicked against teeth.

Tanner’s inclined to agree. He’d know better than most anyways, wouldn’t he?

You roll your neck--as unawares as ever--bones grinding against one another in a parody of something more intimate beneath your flesh (tendons showing starkly against your skin). Eyes slide closed when that telltale _pop_ resounds in the air, a noise escaping you that Tanner has to stifle the most pitiful, breathless laugh at. Helpless, it’s a sound he’s warring at himself over, a sound he wants to hear more and more of even as he wants to muffle it, silence you with hand over mouth, hand at your throat.

He hunkers down, knees protesting as he folds his weight further onto them. Starched white brushes against grass below, but no one’s around but him to see the telltale twitching of an eye. Tomorrow’s problem, naturally. The Tanner of _tonight_ simply ignores it, presses his hand to the window’s latch, and pushes.

Meanwhile, in the flickering lights of your home, you lean forward further, foot resting on the ground bobbing in absent-minded thought as your mouth moves, lips curving around each syllable as though they stick--molasses-like--on your tongue. It’s shaping up to be another night where you’ll go to sleep much later than you’d like, though one of the countless perks of being an insomniac is that you don’t need much to function, a cool four hours and a strong mug of espresso and you’re well on your way. Your constant investigations aren’t bearing much fruit tonight, shamefully, and it’s taking a toll on you (if the sunken bags under your eyes are any proper indicator). The words are starting to blur together after a while, alphabet soup dancing before your vision.

Toss up decision: if you brew a cup of sweet elixir like you’re really, really wanting to, you’d be raring to go. But it’s not a Friday night and you’ve got work in the AM (actual work, not this chasing after your own tail). It feels fruitless, and you’re not stupid enough to think that just _maybe_ the Blueblood slipped up and left a trail of breadcrumbs for you to follow. But these cases you’re pursuing in the interim...If you can stop someone’s pain from mirroring your own, it’s worth a few sleepless nights, worth spending extra time in the mirror hiding vicious bags with concealer until your next skincare delivery saves you from inevitable questions. _Yes, you’re doing just fine. No, it has nothing to do with the stress of the job. No, you won’t be going back to therapy for what happened so many years ago. Now, if you wouldn’t mind..._

So no coffee, not this time. Fine and dandy to try and avenge what was lost in your off hours, but unthinkable to let it interfere with your own work, your own day-to-day.

You did not get to where you are today by being pitied. And you will not rest on your laurels while there are injustices to be made right, that’s not how you were raised and that damn sure isn’t going to change any time soon. The people of this town will never know what you do for them. And that’s fine, it’s better like that.

So you stretch your legs out in front of you, make some obscene noise in the back of your throat at the _crackle-crackle-pop_ of bones you don’t have names for, and settle back into your seat, cursing underneath your breath at a screen that’s gone dark in sleep mode.

It is only then that you notice the shade in white reflected in the darkness of your computer monitor. A righteous build-up of a scream stalls in your throat, half-aborted as the pinch of a needle delves into your neck.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://voidbait.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Twitter](https://twitter.com/GODCOMPLEXXED)
> 
> Any and all typos are my own, don't edit while half-asleep, y'all.


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